


descend into cliche

by exbeekeeper



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Gen, M/M, Slow Burn, canon character death, felix-centric, more tags to be added later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-18
Updated: 2019-11-18
Packaged: 2021-02-12 20:30:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21482419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exbeekeeper/pseuds/exbeekeeper
Summary: As a child, Felix knows that he is destined to walk at Dimitri's right hand forever, no matter where it may take them. Then the Tragedy happens – Dimitri comes back different, and Glenn doesn't come back at all – and it throws everything Felix knows into disarray. It takes a couple lives, but he figures it out, eventually.Or: Felix and Dimitri splinter apart, stitch themselves back together in the face of death, and only then, finally, can they begin to grow.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Felix Hugo Fraldarius
Comments: 5
Kudos: 67





	descend into cliche

**Author's Note:**

> work & chapter titles all come from [famous prophets (stars)](https://genius.com/Car-seat-headrest-famous-prophets-stars-lyrics) by car seat headrest, which is so dimilix/fraldarddyd it hurts. thanks to [aj](https://twitter.com/aviianart) for beta reading this. i didn't add the graphic depictions of violence tag, because i don't think this chapter is that graphic, but there is some violence (canon-typical), so be aware of that. 
> 
> other warnings: felix-typical misunderstanding and demonization of dimitri's mental illness (it goes largely un-addressed in this chapter, though sylvain does try, kind of. felix will face consequences + grow in future chapters, i promise!). also faerghus-typical fucked up priorities regarding knighthood and dead kids, and fraldarius-typical fucked up priorities regarding the blaiddyds.

When Felix is nine years old – old enough that he takes himself altogether too seriously, though for all his seriousness and conviction his father still won’t look at him with the pride he reserves only for Glenn – his older brother, tasked with keeping Felix and his mischievous quartet of friends out of trouble, had sat them all down in the courtyard of the palace. With all the self-importance only a thirteen-year-old wielding artificial authority over a group of nine- and eleven-year-olds could muster, he had said, “Who wants to hear about the legend of Loog and Kyphon?”

Felix, of course, has heard all the stories before. This particular telling is significant only in what it makes him realize, in the understanding it gives him. Dimitri sits beside him, at rapt attention, and on his other side Ingrid perks up, fidgeting excitedly, little hands balled into fists. Ingrid is always like this around Glenn. It’s the combination of her devotion to knighthood and starry-eyed hero worship of almost every one of the Knights projected onto Glenn, the youngest squire in the Kingdom and the next Shield of Faerghus. 

(Felix loves Ingrid, but he hopes she gets over her crush soon. She’s more fun when she’s not fretting over whether any individual action of hers is ‘something Glenn would do.’) 

“Do the one about the War of the Eagle and Lion, please,” she says, all open adoration. Even Sylvain looks interested, though he’s clearly trying to hide it, because he’s eleven and likes to pretend he’s too cool for Dimitri, Felix, and Ingrid when they play knights and heroes. Even Dimitri seems intrigued, though Felix is sure the prince has heard these stories even more than he has. 

Felix likes when Glenn tells these stories because Glenn always tells them as though Kyphon is the main character. It makes him think maybe there is a place in history for the right hand of the hero after all. “Hundreds of years ago,” Glenn begins, “there lived a great knight, said to be descended from the legendary hero Fraldarius.” 

“And his name was Kyphon!” Ingrid exclaims. Glenn smiles at her. 

“Yes,” he says, “his name was Kyphon. He was me and Fe’s however-many-greats grandfather, if you believe the legends.” 

Felix still feels a spark of pride, however much he tries to stamp it out; there is no use in pride for one’s long-dead ancestors, Felix knows, and he has to work to earn his own place in history. But the tales of Kyphon’s might he grew up with still fill him with an unearned joy he hasn’t quite been able to squash. 

Glenn says, “Kyphon, though a great warrior in his own right, was not only notable for his strength with a sword or his bravery in battle. Kyphon was the right hand of a great man – one who would become a great king.”

“Loog!” Dimitri shouts, then covers his mouth quickly, embarrassed by the outburst. Felix bumps his shoulder into the young prince’s in solidarity; Dimitri’s childlike enthusiasm is often weighed down by the responsibilities of his station, and Felix hates to see him trying to play the perfect prince even when it’s just them. 

Glenn nods again. “But the King of Lions wasn’t a king yet. He wasn’t even a hero. He was just a man, albeit one with an illustrious bloodline – descended from Blaiddyd of the ten elites, Loog is said to have been an ancestor of our dear princeling here.” 

Dimitri smiles, big and sure, and Felix finds it hard to look away. 

“Of course, even before the War of the Eagle and Lion, Loog and Kyphon got into all sorts of trouble. Loog in particular had a bleeding heart, and could never turn a blind eye to anyone in danger. And Kyphon would have followed Loog anywhere. So they traveled from town to town, saving the people of what would become the Kingdom from nefarious, tyrannical Imperial soldiers and enormous, horrible monsters.”

“Loog grew more and more enraged at what he saw. One night around a campfire, after a rough battle with a wild, fanged creature – sent by the Imperial crown to keep a small fishing village in line – from which he only escaped with his life due to Kyphon’s quick thinking and quicker blade, Loog made up his mind.” 

“‘My dear friend Kyphon,’ Loog said, ‘I grow tired of the suffering of my people. Is there not something we can do to alleviate their pain?’ And Kyphon replied, ‘Loog, bravest of men and truest of friends, you know I would follow you to the end of the world. If it is your wish, then together we will cut through the rubble of the Empire’s hold on these lands and forge a new kingdom.’”

Felix is still looking at Dimitri. He cannot bring himself to tear his gaze away. Dimitri looks thrilled, enraptured, blue eyes shining with delight. Felix stands up, abruptly, and Glenn startles. The movement knocks everybody else out of their focus, and four pairs of wide eyes are suddenly trained on him. Felix meets Dimitri’s eyes. 

What Felix realizes, in that moment, is that he, like Kyphon before him, would follow Dimitri anywhere he asked – into battle with the Empire, into the den of any monster, even into the eternal flames. Worse – more selfishly, because Felix is not Kyphon and Felix cannot be content with one-sided devotion alone – Felix wants Dimitri to need him by his side. 

Felix knows how the story of Loog and Kyphon ends. They forge a bond on the battlefield, strong and unbreakable, Kyphon always at Loog’s back protecting his bleeding heart from backstabbers and underhanded surprise attacks, Loog relying on Kyphon, trusting him blindly, and then, after the war, Loog becomes the First King, and Kyphon becomes the first Duke Fraldarius. 

Loog has a queen. Kyphon has a duchess. They are no longer by each other’s sides. Felix is nine years old, but he knows he doesn’t want some girl who doesn’t know Dimitri, doesn’t care about him the way Kyphon cared about Loog, taking Felix’s rightful place by his side. 

“Dimitri,” Felix says, suddenly unsure, and Dimitri blinks back at him. “Dimitri, I...” 

Ingrid grabs at his arm, annoyed. “Sit _down_, Felix, I wanna hear the end!” she says in that bossy, no-nonsense way of hers. Felix tears his arm away, suddenly ashamed of what he might have said, and in his embarrassment he takes a step backwards and then turns on his heel and runs off into the winding maze of the palace gardens. 

Most of the time when Felix runs off like this, Sylvain is the one to find him, coax him out of hiding, dry his tears and bring him back to the others. Felix half hopes it’ll be Sylvain this time, too, if only because he doesn’t want to explain himself to Dimitri.

Sylvain doesn’t find him, but neither does Dimitri; as he sits, knees tucked close to his chest behind a great statue of Loog himself, Ingrid’s voice finds him. 

“Felix? Fe, come back, I’m sorry!” 

He stays very quiet but she finds him anyway, squats down in front of his hiding place with a soft frown and a wrinkle between her eyebrows that says she doesn’t _really_ get why Felix is upset, but she wishes he would stop anyway. A sizeable chunk of dirty blond hair has fallen out of one of her braids and into her face, and she blows it out of the way, annoyed. “What’s up, Felix,” she says, and he recognizes it as an invitation to talk even if she doesn’t phrase it like a question. 

“... I don’t want Dimitri and me to end up like Loog and Kyphon,” he says finally, giving into her searching, calculating green eyes.

Ingrid looks confused, which, in retrospect, is entirely fair; he wasn’t exactly very forthcoming with the details. “What do you mean? Loog and Kyphon were the best of friends. There’ve never been any knights more brave or chivalrous than they were.” 

Felix waves a hand at her, frustrated. “Yeah, but they didn’t stay best friends. They got married and became boring nobles and stopped going on adventures. I don’t ever want to stop being Dimitri’s best friend.” 

Ingrid blinks at him, then sighs. “Felix, you know Dimitri is going to be king. Since Glenn is going to be Duke Fraldarius, maybe you should focus on becoming a knight, so you can always stay by his side and protect him. Like Kyphon.” 

Felix look down at the ground. “I guess that’s good enough,” he says, even though it’s not. Felix takes Ingrid’s proffered hand and lets her pull him to his feet. When they meet back up with Sylvain and Dimitri – Glenn having been called inside by their father and the King for the niceties required of him by his age and his position as heir – Felix can’t quite meet Dimitri’s searching gaze.

Later that night, Dimitri finds him before bed, in the winding hallway where the Fraldarius guest quarters lie. There’s a question in his eyes, but it goes deeper than Felix knows how to answer, so instead he says, “Let’s have lots of adventures before you have to go be the boring King.” 

Dimitri looks at him, half smiling. “I don’t want to be the boring King if it means I don’t get to have adventures with you.” They both know it is an empty promise, and the knowledge that it cannot come to pass settles heavy in Felix’s chest, but he gives Dimitri a big hug anyway before Rodrigue is calling for him. 

\-------------

Four years later, when Glenn draws his last breath in Duscur, Felix, thirteen years old, cannot seem to recall the last legend of Kyphon and Loog Glenn had told him. The one that sticks in his head, then and now, is that of the swordsman who would follow his King into fire. 

“Glenn died a true knight,” Felix’s father says. They’re sitting in the parlor of his family’s estate on the evening before Glenn’s funeral, and Felix isn’t sure why he’s here to begin with. The words burn like acid in the back of Felix’s throat. _No,_ he wants to scream, _he was seventeen years old, he hadn’t had a chance to be anything at all._ He bites his tongue. 

“He saved the life of our young prince,” his uncle replies, “I am sure Kyphon will welcome him with open arms.”

Felix feels like he will never stop being angry. “You’re wrong,” he spits at his uncle, and his father’s gaze feels like a brand. 

“Hold your tongue, Felix,” Rodrigue warns, and Felix half snarls. He’s shaking with rage. He isn’t sure why this is making him so angry, only that it is, and that if he doesn’t say something now he will never forgive himself.

“You’re wrong! No one is going to _welcome_ Glenn anywhere. He’s just _dead._ He died scared and hurting and alone and you’re all applauding it like it meant fucking anything!” 

Rodrigue stands, quick and mean, grabs Felix’s wrist and nearly drags him out of the room. Felix fights him the whole way out, but he’s thirteen and Rodrigue is an adult and a Knight of Faerghus and it’s really not much of a fight at all. They stand in the hall, glaring at each other, sizing each other up. 

“Felix,” Rodrigue says, all feigned patience, “I know you’re hurting. We all are.” 

“Shut up! Why are you so keen to glorify the death of your favorite son?” Felix spits. 

Rodrigue reels back, something Felix cannot comprehend flashing like lightning across his face. “Felix, you know I–”

“Glenn didn’t want to die a hero. He didn’t want to die at all.” Felix turns around and storms away to his room before he can see the look on his father’s face. If there was any trust between them before this, Felix can feel it stretching tightly and then snapping like the delicate bend of a bow beneath Dimitri’s too-strong hands.

Felix still hasn’t seen Dimitri since it happened. When he learned of the event in Duscur, Felix had cried inconsolably, thinking he had lost Dimitri and his brother in one fell swoop. He spent a week convinced that Dimitri was dead as well. Felix only learned the truth a few days before the funeral, when Rodrigue pulled him aside and said “Felix, you need to be aware that His Highness may be different than you remember; he has suffered greatly.” Felix is so relieved to learn that Dimitri is still alive that he doesn’t even think to wonder what that might mean.

The sun shines beautifully on the day of the funeral. His friends are all there. Sylvain is the first to see him, and he glues himself to Felix’s side, resting a hand on his shoulder and glaring sharply at anyone who would approach to offer empty words of condolence. Felix appreciates this more than he will ever know how to say, because he’s not sure how many more times he can hear people three times as old as Glenn will ever be pretending there was any justice in what happened to him. 

Ingrid sobs into her hands when she sees him and Felix is reminded once again of just how like his brother he’d looked. Felix wishes his very presence wouldn’t aggravate her grief, but that morning when he looked into the mirror he’d startled at Glenn’s eyes staring back at him, so he can’t really blame her either.

Felix does not cry at the funeral. He feels like he’s done nothing but rage and cry for a week since they received the news and he wonders if there is a lifetime limit on tears. His father had given him a stern lecture in the carriage here on the necessity of appearing strong and unwavering to the other nobles, so of course Felix had _wanted_ to cry, just to spite his father, but he is exhausted and wrung-out, his grief sharpened into hot spikes of anger by the sudden weight of his family’s expectations. 

Ingrid approaches him, finally, saying something about how sorry she is, and he nods numbly and excuses himself before she can say something about knighthood and bravery that will make him want to lash out cruelly against one of his dearest friends. 

And then Dimitri is there. He is standing at the head of the casket, blue eyes turned upward, mouth turned down into something like a grimace. When Felix makes for him, Sylvain gives his elbow a squeeze before ambling off to hover worriedly at Ingrid’s side, which is fair; Felix has shuttered away his emotions, after all, and Ingrid is very clearly not dealing well. 

Dimitri doesn’t acknowledge Felix as he approaches, but that doesn’t deter him. “Dimitri,” he says. Dimitri doesn’t respond with words, only inclines his head ever-so-slightly so Felix knows he’d heard. Felix wants to shake him. Instead, he clenches his fists. “I’m glad you’re alive. That’s all.” Felix turns to go, unable to bear seeing Dimitri so subdued, but Dimitri finally turns to face him, catching him by an elbow. The life is entirely gone from his eyes. 

“Do you remember when he told us that story, of Kyphon following Loog into the flames?” Felix nods mutely, and Dimitri gives him a bitter smile that makes bile rise in his throat. “There was so much fire. Felix, I’m sorry, I wasn’t Loog. I couldn’t save him. I’m, hah. I am no King of Lions.” 

Felix wrenches his arm from Dimitri’s grasp. “Don’t be stupid. Glenn wasn’t Kyphon either.” Dimitri eyes him warily. The weight of his gaze is uncomfortable. “I’m glad you’re not dead too. That’s all.” 

Felix takes his place by Rodrigue’s side. He does not cry. 

\-------------

Until he was thirteen, Felix was the second son of a noble house. Being a Fraldarius, there were still certain expectations he had to meet, but overall the most anyone expected of Felix was that he might become a Knight of Faerghus, perhaps assist his brother in times of strife. He did not bear the weight of expectation Glenn did, as the firstborn son of the Shield of Faerghus, and along with that he did not get nearly the amount of attention and training for dukedom that Glenn had.

All this is to say that when, at thirteen, he suddenly found himself the only surviving Fraldarius son, the household became something of a mad scramble to prepare him for the position he was never meant to inherit. Before, Felix never understood exactly why Glenn acted the way he did; now, being forced into the position of heir to Fraldarius, Felix understands his brother a bit more. It’s easier to meet their expectations if you spend all day honing your sword and not much else, easier to deflect concerns over your fitness if you’re fast enough, if you’re good enough. 

Before that year Felix was known by his friends and family as something of a crybaby. He felt strongly and without hesitation; his emotions were a forest fire and they burned through any attempts he made at hiding them. After Glenn’s funeral, his father caught him crying only once, and leveled him with a stern look.

“Felix,” he said, sounding unbearably tired, “we allowed this sort of behavior to continue because you were young, and because Glenn had the strength of character you lacked, but all that has changed now. You need to step up and follow his example, my son. A Fraldarius cannot afford to display this level of weakness.”

Felix hated his father, for this and for everything else about the way he’d treated Glenn’s death, but even so Rodrigue’s words cut him like a knife. It was made worse by the fact that he knew his father was right: if he wanted to protect his friends, or to defend the people in the Fraldarius dukedom, Felix could not be seen crying like a child at the slightest sign of trouble. 

So Felix, thirteen years old, very carefully laid out all the things he was thinking and feeling, everything that made him sad or upset or fearful or worried, along with all the things that he loved, and one by one he twisted each into anger that burned him like hot coals on his bare feet. He traded tears for a sharpness of tongue worse even than Glenn’s had been; whenever before he would have burst into tears, now he swallowed his sadness and let rage take over, lashing out over and over again until it became second nature. 

(Felix borrows Glenn’s sarcasm, his knowing cruelty, for two reasons: first, because it’s an aspect of Glenn everyone seems to want to wash away in favor of pretending he was the perfect, kind, brave knight. Second, because he can’t get stronger if he’s too busy crying like the pathetic child he was, and anger is at least something he can channel.)

His father summons him to his study one day, a week after the funeral, a grim expression on his face. Felix’s guard is already up when he arrives at the great oak door, and the book spread open on his father’s lap doesn’t do anything but put him more on edge. 

It’s an old book of fables, the pages worn, one side mostly taken up by an old and faded watercolor painting of Blaiddyd, Areadbhar raised to the heavens, armor shining in the sun behind him, and Fraldarius, astride her white pegasus, her long dark hair whipping in the wind, the Aegis shield high in the air, protecting Blaiddyd’s face from the brunt of the sun. Felix stares at his father. Rodrigue looks up and sees him standing in the door.

“Felix, my son,” his father says, and the _my son_ is Felix’s next hint that he isn’t going to like where this ends up. Rodrigue only ever calls him that when he wishes he were talking to Glenn instead of Felix, and every time it only serves to drive the wedge further between them. Felix frowns. 

“Rodrigue, my father,” he deadpans, relishing the way the corners of his father’s mouth turn further downward in annoyance at the use of his first name. (He savors what little victories he can get, when it comes to his father.)

Rodrigue huffs at him and motions him over so that he’s standing over his father’s shoulder, staring down at this painting. “As I am sure you are aware,” he says, “the title of Duke Fraldarius is one that comes with great personal responsibility. Now that Glenn has passed, and upon my death that title will fall to you, it is my duty to impress upon you the gravity of the responsibility you bear.”

Felix rolls his eyes. “I understand my duty, father.”

“I am not sure that you do, Felix,” Rodrigue says. “You have always been close with the young prince, but there is… a difference, between the friendship you share, and the kind of devotion required of Duke Fraldarius.”

Felix frowns down at him. “And to this end, you… want to show me a child’s story book?”

His father doesn’t roll his eyes at him then, but Felix knows Rodrigue’s tells, and he can tell that it’s a near thing. “I want to impress upon you the importance of our two families’ histories together. In order to do that, we need to go back to Lady Fraldarius herself. Sit down, Felix.” Rodrigue points to the page. “This is an elegy written about our ancestor within a few decades of her death. Tradition suggests that it was penned by a close vassal of hers.”

Felix scoffs, but sits. The poem his father points to is not one he recognizes – entitled “The Lament of Lady Fraldarius,” it’s a mid-length, utterly traditional Faerghan elegy. Felix is fully prepared to be bored to tears by it, but as he reads, his father’s watchful eye on his neck, he finds himself drawn in by the words. The descriptions of Fraldarius’ devotion to Blaiddyd seem almost… 

“Father,” Felix says, keeping his voice carefully level, “were Fraldarius’ feelings for Blaiddyd romantic in nature?” 

Rodrigue smiles thinly. “She lived long ago, my son. There is no way to accurately say what she felt. But it is true that they are often depicted as such.” He takes a breath. “Much of it is likely embellished, but it is true, based on all available evidence, that she cared for him deeply.” 

“She gave her life for him,” Felix says. “Was that – just her duty, as his knight, or…” 

Something sparks in his father’s gaze. “Whatever her motivations might have been, they are lost to history. I am showing you this only to impress upon you the depth of history between our two families.” Felix nods, even as his eyes linger on the final couplet of the elegy:

_lady fraldarius, hand to his heart, let her eyes flutter closed;_  
_sworn to her vengeance, the knight kissed from her palm her own blood._

Something twists soft and aching in Felix’s gut at the description, but he pushes it away. His father turns to the next dog-eared page, interrupting his train of thought. There’s no illustration, so Felix squints at the words on the page. This work seems newer, but not contemporary, and it’s one Felix recognizes immediately. 

“_Loog and the Maiden of Wind_?” Felix says incredulously. “Really, father?” 

“Just listen, Felix,” Rodrigue says, clearly losing patience. “You are the heir to House Fraldarius. There will come a day when it will be your duty to pledge everything to Dimitri – your life, your loyalty, your service. It is impossible to give those things to a person without also giving them a piece of your heart. You may not like it, but it is what it is.”

Felix scoffs, intending to offer some witty retort, but Rodrigue cuts him off. “It does not matter what you think of this, Felix. Our duty is as it always has been. You need to understand that.”

“I won’t ever understand giving up my life for the sake of a culture that glorifies the senseless sacrifice of children,” Felix says, not even bothering to keep the heat out of his tone. 

Rodrigue narrows his eyes at Felix and closes the book. Felix gets the vague sense that a decision has just been made for him, but he is dismissed from his father’s study without further comment, and he doesn’t figure out what that decision might be until three days later when Rodrigue summons him to his office and informs him, in a tone that brooks no argument, that a squiredom has been arranged on his behalf with Lady Iseult, a junior knight of the kingdom and, Felix knows, one of Ingrid’s personal heroes. 

Iseult is strong of character and of conviction; she had, in fact, employed Glenn as her squire years before, a fact which meant she was well-prepared to deal with Felix’s newfound abrasiveness, since Glenn had been much the same, but which also meant Felix often caught her watching him carefully, searching for signs of the boy Glenn had been. It makes his toes curl. 

Felix has found, in the months since Glenn’s death, that he hates being compared to Glenn, not because he knows he’ll never quite measure up but because it makes him feel so terribly, bitterly lonely he doesn’t know what to do with himself. 

If everyone sees Glenn when they look at him, what happens to Felix? It is a question that plagues him, in the months he spends at Iseult’s side. Squiredom is tedious and all her talk of chivalry and knightly values makes him sick, but at least it is a chance for Felix to hone his blade against worthy opponents. 

“Felix,” she says to him one day over breakfast, “how well do you know our prince?” 

Felix is taken aback by the question, which comes seemingly out of the blue and cuts through the terse but familiar silence they’ve cultivated. “What?” 

“Prince Dimitri. Lord Rodrigue mentioned the two of you were close as boys.” 

Felix looks away. “Yes,” he says, “we were. We have not spoken in some time, though. Not since – my brother’s funeral.” 

Iseult hums. “I ask because I’ve received word from the royal household that His Highness is on his way here. The prince’s regent apparently thinks it’ll do him good to get out of Fhirdiad for some time, so we’re accompanying him to take care of a minor rebellion in the north, on the edge of Gautier territory.”

Felix blinks. Iseult isn’t looking at him anymore, focused entirely on the missive in her hands, but Felix’s mind is stuck on what feels like a hundred things all at once. He hasn’t seen Dimitri since Glenn’s funeral, but he’s heard the rumors, like everyone else: that the Crown Prince is not in his right mind, that he spends all day and night staring into nothing at all, that he is angry and irritable and altogether not even close to the boy he was even days before the event. 

And Felix would be more than happy to scoff at all of it, say it’s just rumors and assume Dimitri might be fine, but Felix… isn’t so sure, this time. For one, there’d been the way Dimitri had acted at the funeral, like it was his fault the attack had happened; for another, Felix knows Dimitri better than he knows himself. He had always been somewhat volatile, with strength too big for his frame and so difficult to control he’d once broken Ingrid’s wrist in a game of catch, and then thrown himself sobbing onto the ground in a fit of guilt. 

That’s the other thing; Dimitri has always, perhaps due to the immense pressure placed on him due to his position but equally likely just because of who he is as a person, felt guilt and blame more keenly than others, more acutely than nearly any other emotion. Dimitri’s guilt over this, this horrible thing which happened to and around him, must be almost insurmountable. 

So Felix nods, though he’s sure Iseult isn’t paying him any mind, and that day when she releases him from his duties he stumbles to the training grounds and hacks apart straw training dummies until he’s too exhausted to think about Dimitri anymore. 

Dimitri arrives in Fraldarius territory three days later. One look into his eyes sets off alarm bells that clang discordantly in Felix’s head. Dimitri plasters a smile onto his face, but this is even worse – it doesn’t reach his eyes, doesn’t light up his face the way it used to, only bares all his teeth and makes him look like a frightened creature trying, desperately, to appear fearsome enough that predators might leave it alone. 

(Years later, Felix will recognize this as his first glimpse at the beast that lives in Dimitri’s skin, not what is to come on this mission). 

Settled directly on the border between Fraldarius and Gautier territory, the village they’ve been dispatched to is small enough that a rebellion there is in and of itself something of a novelty; indeed, Felix cannot remember ever hearing of a time when this particular village had risen up against either house Fraldarius or house Gautier. 

Iseult rides on ahead, leaving her soldiers with Felix, in order to begin making preparations before the prince arrives. Felix rides alongside Dimitri, expecting the experience to be mostly uncomfortable; he has never been good at commanding battalions, and all his attempts at conversation with Dimitri are met with hollow silence or an odd sort of chuckle that send shivers down Felix’s spine. 

All his expectations fly out the window as soon as they arrive at the village. Or, if Felix is being accurate, they deserted him a few moments before, as soon as he heard the screaming; his horse, a gray mare who tolerates him about as much as any horse can be expected to – which is not much, the creatures have never liked him and the feeling is mutual – whinnies in distress, and Felix urges her into a gallop. 

Felix can only trust his battalion, used by now to his erratic actions and lack of warning given, to be able to follow along. He can hear Dimitri at his side, breathing heavily, though he does not dare glance his way.

They crest over the hill. The whole village – every thatched roof, every chicken coop, every market stall – is already ablaze, white-hot and crackling horribly. Felix feels caged in, trapped by the horror of the scene in front of him, and he looks to Dimitri for guidance, as he always has. 

Dimitri is leaning back in the saddle of his horse, one hand gripping his lance. His eyes are like the morning-red sun setting over the pond on the Fraldarius estate, deep and orange with the fire and the carnage. Indeed, his whole face is lit up by the flames, shining off his hair in a way that might be beautiful under other circumstances. 

Most horribly of all, Dimitri is laughing, low and detached, and Felix cannot help but wonder what exactly happened in Duscur that it could turn Dimitri – sweet, lovely Dimitri, who had always been honorable and gentle and generous enough that Felix had worried, at times, that it might get him taken advantage of, had made it his business to be meaner than he liked just to make sure that never happened to him – into this, a man who laughed at the smell of burning flesh. 

Dimitri meets Felix’s eyes, and it is in that moment that he knows that whatever transformation has occurred, it is deep-seated and permanent. The look in Dimitri’s eyes is nothing he has ever seen from him before. Felix cannot imagine anyone coming back from this; it is as if Dimitri, the child he once wanted to devote his life and his blade to, has died, and whatever inhabits his skin now can never be the same.

The prince dismounts from the back of his horse and, shooting another glance at Felix, rushes into the fray. Whatever part of Felix might be clinging to hope that Dimitri, in such a state, can differentiate between their enemy and the innocents is dashed, then. Dimitri does not – cannot, in this moment – make any distinction between ally and enemy, between treasonous rebel and innocent villager. 

Felix dismounts too, makes a beeline to Dimitri’s side, grabs his arm roughly. The villager at the end of his lance wrenches himself free and drags himself through the wreckage, clutching all the while at the bloody wound in his chest. 

Dimitri shrugs Felix off, clearly intending to give chase, so Felix, in desperation, curls his hand into a fist, reels back, and sucker-punches the Crown Prince of Faerghus directly in the mouth. Dimitri looks at him, shocked, before his face hardens. 

“Have you turned against me as well, Glenn?” 

Were he the Felix of even a few months ago, this might have made tears spring to his eyes. Now, though, it only pisses him off. Felix clenches his hands into fists, acutely aware of the smoke filling his lungs, the sting of the embers rising into the night air. “Glenn is dead. You are a fool, Dimitri.”

It’s this that brings recognition to Dimitri’s eyes, and Felix remembers, belatedly, that Glenn had only ever called their prince _Your Highness_. 

“Felix,” Dimitri says, “Felix, I’m s–”

“Save it. I don’t even want to look at you right now.” Felix looks away, but he’s not quick enough to avoid having to see the hurt that flashes across Dimitri’s face. 

“For a moment I was back in Duscur,” Dimitri says, and for all that it is a cry for help, a plea for absolution, it is one that Felix, not even fifteen yet, has neither the means nor the aptitude to answer. 

Instead he says, “Our duty here is to the villagers first and foremost, so let’s get as many people out into encampments as we can.” Dimitri nods, uncertain. “Do not lose yourself again.”

_I need you here,_ Felix does not say. He hopes Dimitri understands; he hopes Dimitri never, ever finds out. 

But Felix is through with being sad, and he’s through with feeling hopeless and helpless and afraid, so he narrows his eyes and tears his gaze away from Dimitri and, together, they get the remaining townspeople out of the burning wreckage of the village. 

It’s not enough. 

In the next two years, he makes it a point not to see Dimitri in any meaningful way. Although Rodrigue has taken a particular interest in the crown prince, and this has resulted in Dimitri being around the Fraldarius manor more often than not, Felix becomes adept at making himself scarce. At first, this is fine; Dimitri does not seem keen on talking to him anyway, not after what happened at the rebellion, and he’s usually busy with Rodrigue to begin with. Felix, for his part, keeps to the training grounds and, failing that, his room. 

Felix has heard, of course, that the prince is recovering well from what happened to and around him in Duscur; that he has returned to the sweet, polite boy he was before, that everyone – Felix’s father especially – is delighted and relieved and proud at his progress. Felix wants to believe that Dimitri is getting better on his own, that maybe they can go back to the way they were after all, but he knows what he saw. 

It is confirmed for him when, almost a year later, Dimitri finally seeks him out. For all Felix is avoiding Dimitri he has not made himself particularly difficult to find, and Dimitri appears in the doorway of the training grounds around lunchtime. He stands there for a while, just watching Felix, who has been practicing his lancework against the poor battered training dummies non-stop for about three hours. 

Felix fixes Dimitri with a look, just to let him know that if he wants to talk, he will have to take initiative, and then with one final, definitive stab he splits open the heart of the training dummy. Sand spills out onto the floor, and he shoves its burlap skin aside. Dimitri clears his throat.

“Felix,” Dimitri says, and Felix has to admit, he is doing an admirable job at hiding whatever lives behind the princely facade. It could fool almost anyone else. But Felix has known Dimitri’s name since before he knew his own, knows his tells and his expressions and his motives and his heart, and so when Felix turns to look at Dimitri, he knows that the openness on his face is a mask. 

He narrows his eyes, crosses his arms. “What?” 

Dimitri looks discouraged by his hostility, but he recovers his bravery quickly. “I wanted… I was hoping we could share a meal. It has been too long, my friend. I have missed you.” 

Felix is already on edge, and the earnestness feels like a sucker-punch to the gut. Felix wants to break something. He doesn’t know whether to be angry or desperately, horribly sad, but by now the former is his natural reaction, and he cannot hold himself back from spitting out the cruel words that rise in his throat. 

“Listen, Your Highness,” he says, and Dimitri flinches at the title Felix had never called him, not once in all their lives, “you may be able to fool everyone else here into thinking you’re cured of whatever was haunting you when you returned from Duscur, but I know you better than that. I know you better than I know myself, better than my father or Ingrid or Sylvain or your uncle or anyone. I wanted–” Felix has to rein himself in, then, before he says something that reveals too much, and he takes a breath, squares his shoulders before continuing, “I saw the look in your eyes that day. It was fucking terrifying. I don’t – whatever happened in Duscur, whatever that made you, you aren’t just magically better because it’s been a couple years. You were like – like a wild boar. That won’t just go away, no matter how good you are at pretending.”

Dimitri shakes his head. “Felix, I–”

“Save your breath. Leave me alone, boar prince.” 

Felix drops his training lance and brushes past Dimitri out of the training grounds. He can hear Dimitri’s shuddering exhale of breath behind him, but he refuses to look back. 

\-------------

When he gets to the Officer’s Academy the following year, Felix knows Dimitri will be there. He does his best to avoid him – though he sees him in passing he manages to make it two days without coming face to face with Dimitri, which is a monumental feat considering that somehow he ended up the prince’s goddess-damned neighbor. He spends most of those two days down in the training grounds or holed up in his room, until Ingrid and Sylvain team up to finally drag him down to the dining hall. 

He goes, with only mild complaining, and doesn’t realize Dimitri is there until he’s already put his plates down and Dimitri, from across the table, clears his throat. Felix nearly jumps out of his skin.

“Hello, Felix,” Dimitri says, all princely properness and easy smiles. Felix wants to smack it off his face. 

Felix inclines his head just a touch, to show he’s heard. “Boar,” he says, an acknowledgement and a dismissal. He looks away from Sylvain’s easy, forced smile, from Ingrid’s worried frown. He does not even let himself glimpse whatever might be showing on Dimitri’s face. He digs into his Daphnel stew with determination, and when he is finished he gets up and leaves without a word. As he stomps off, he hears Ingrid sigh. 

There’s a knock on his door that night, and Felix is sure he’s not going to like the conversation that whoever’s there to bother him has undoubtedly brought to his doorstep, but he opens the door anyway. To his utter lack of surprise, on the other side of the door is Sylvain, who schmoozes his way into the room without waiting for Felix to invite him in. 

“Felix!” Sylvain says easily, flopping onto Felix’s bed. Felix scowls at him, but like always it doesn’t seem to deter him much. “Old friend, it’s been too long! How’ve you been?” 

“Fuck off and die,” Felix says, sitting down in the desk chair, facing resolutely away from Sylvain. 

Sylvain puts a hand to his heart in mock-hurt. “You wound me, Fe! What happened to you in the course of the perilous duties of a squire to make you oh-so-brittle and cruel?” Felix busies himself organizing his notebooks for class and does not dignify this with a response. After a short pause, Sylvain lets out a bark of laughter. “You know what? That’s fair. But hey, level with me here for a sec. What’s up with you and His Highness?” 

This makes Felix pause. “Since when do you get to question me about _my_ relationship choices?” 

Sylvain holds up his hands. “What can I say? I love to give the people what they want.” 

“If that were true, you would not be here.” 

“Some people,” Sylvain acquiesces. “But seriously. You and the prince used to be inseparable. You used to cry every time he had to leave to go back to Fhirdiad. I remember my dad saying – well. It doesn’t matter what my old man thought. Felix, what the hell happened to you two?” 

Felix’s grip on the edge of the desk tenses and then relaxes again. He turns to face Sylvain, whose easy expression is clearly a farce, meant to mask his concern. He sighs, rubs at his temples. “Look,” he says, “does it matter? We were close. Now we’re not. Whatever.” 

Sylvain tips his head to one side, considering. “I think it does matter, yeah. You can’t avoid him forever. I know everything got kind of fucked up after Duscur, but –”

“_Kind of fucked up?_” Felix spits, cutting Sylvain off. He’s standing now, looming over Sylvain, who doesn’t look nearly as intimidated as Felix would like. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing. The king died. My brother died. He was seventeen, and now when the Pegasus Moon rolls around I’m going to be older than he’ll ever get the chance to be. And Dimitri –” Felix is breathing hard, realizes he’s said too much, but he can’t stop himself – “Dimitri died there too. Whatever that beast is that wears his skin and walks around pretending everything’s fine only serves to prove that.” 

“That’s not fair and you know it, Felix. He went through something horrible, but that doesn’t mean he _died._ He’s just a little different now, that’s all.” 

Felix snorts. “Wait until you see him in battle. Then you’ll know what I mean. Dimitri was – he was _good,_ in a way I’ve never known from anyone else, earnest and kind. Now a bloodthirsty boar lives in his skin. And I’m the only one who can see it.”

Sylvain stares at him for a good while before sighing. “Well, I got my answer. I’m gonna head out.”

Felix keeps his gaze trained on the floor, hands balled into fists. They’re trembling, he knows, and he’s not sure what it is about Dimitri that always, without fail, brings out the twelve-year-old crybaby Felix hasn’t been since Duscur. 

Sylvain stops at Felix’s door on his way out. “You aren’t the same kid you were before Duscur either, you know. If Dimitri died that day, then what about you?”

Felix does not answer. Sylvain closes his door with a _click._ When Felix can no longer hear his footsteps, he collapses onto his bed and stares at the wall for a long, long time. 

Dimitri leaves early the next morning. Classes are set to start in two days, but the professors haven’t arrived yet; Felix knows this because Dimitri, Claude, and Edelgard are all accompanying Alois and a few of the other Knights of Seiros to retrieve them. The next night, both of his neighbors are away, and Felix stays up long past what is probably healthy. Felix is nauseous all day, feels sick and hollow in a way that’s suspiciously close to worry. So he pushes it down, goes through his elementary maneuvers instead until his arms ache. He falls into a fitful slumber.

The day after that, their three house leaders return, along with Alois, an ex-songstress named Manuela, a researcher named Hanneman, the old captain of the Knights of Seiros, and a blank-eyed mercenary who looks like they’re probably younger than Mercedes. Felix wonders who their professor will be; neither Manuela nor Hanneman seem particularly equipped to teach most of the Blue Lions, but Felix isn’t sure who the third professor is – maybe the ex-captain? 

Felix hopes it’ll be him, if only for the chance to spar against someone with actual, proper combat experience. There’s something about the way that mercenary talks to him, though, that gives Felix pause; it’s like they’re making a decision that will affect the course of history, and they know it, and he doesn’t. It puts him on edge.

(It is, of course, a choice that will ruin him, over and over again. But Felix has yet to realize this, so for now, he puts the thought out of his mind.)

**Author's Note:**

> next time: felix gains some new friends and loses some old ones. dimitri, arguably, has a pretty good run up until the end. the river runs crimson. byleth starts again. 
> 
> if you liked this, [come say hi to me on twitter!](https://twitter.com/exbeekeeper)
> 
> a warning: i have been working on this chapter for about a month, so i have no idea how long the next one will take.


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